The Language of the Dead by Stephen Kelly

and missing a portion of its bottom left corner. The shallow closet contained several shirts, jackets, and trousers hanging from a wooden rod. Rivers went through the pockets of the clothes but found nothing save a few pence. He looked beneath Will’s bed but found only a layer of dust and a few cobwebs.
    In the bureau he found three shirts, four pairs of socks, and two pairs of old black trousers with holes in the knees. Beneath the trousers he found a framed photograph of a young woman and a small drawstring pouch made of blue felt. The photo clearly had been shot in a studio. The woman was posed on a chair, by a small table on which stood a vase brimming with large roses. He guessed, given the clothing the woman wore, that the photograph had been taken near the turn of the century. Rivers opened the pouch and found that it contained a heart-shaped gold locket on a gold chain. He opened the locket and found in it a photograph of a young man standing by the sea that he guessed was Will Blackwell. The man was tall and slender. He wore a dark suit, a bowler hat, and a broad smile.
    He put the locket into his pocket and picked up the photograph. He found Wallace awaiting him in the hall.
    â€œAnything useful?” Rivers asked.
    â€œNothing, save a diary,” Wallace said. “Though it had nothing in it. Just odds and bits about the weather and so on. Rather sad, actually.”
    Rivers showed Wallace the photo and the locket.
    â€œMementos of happier days, then?” Wallace asked.
    â€œApparently. What do
you
think, then, Sergeant—about Abbott and the niece?”
    Wallace agreed with Rivers that Lydia Blackwell seemed to be lying about her relationship with Abbott. But he didn’t want to undercut Lamb.
    â€œI don’t know,” he said.
    Rivers smiled crookedly and clasped a hand on Wallace’s shoulder, which surprised Wallace. “Loyalty, eh. That’s good. Still, you have to be careful with who you’re loyal to. Don’t want to back the wrong horse.”
    Wallace glanced at Rivers’s hand on his shoulder. He wasn’t exactly sure what Rivers meant except that he seemed to be referring to Lamb. Wallace wondered what had transpired between them.
    â€œI’m comfortable with my bet,” Wallace said.
    Rivers widened his oblique smile a notch, but said nothing.
    Lamb made a circuit of the house but found nothing save a small toolshed in the back. He tried the door but found the interior utterly dark and without a light; he decided to leave it for tomorrow. He returned to the cottage to find Wallace and Rivers descending the stairs. The trio rendezvoused in the kitchen and shared what they’d found, which, aside from the old photos, amounted to nothing.
    They returned to the chairs in the sitting room.
    â€œWe won’t trouble you but for a few moments more, Miss Blackwell,” Lamb said. “Just a few more questions and then we’ll be on our way.”
    He showed Lydia the framed photo Rivers had taken from Will’s room. “What can you tell me about this photograph?” he asked.
    â€œThat is Claire, Will’s late wife.”
    Lamb was surprised to hear that Will had been married. Everything he’d heard and seen suggested that the old man always had been a bachelor.
    â€œWhen did Will’s wife die?”
    â€œMany years ago, sir. Before I was born. They had been married less than two years when she died.”
    â€œAnd Will never remarried?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œDid your uncle leave a will?”
    Lydia’s eyes widened. “No, sir,” she said. “Will never would have done that.”
    â€œDo you know, then, what will become of his property—this cottage, for instance, and anything else he might have owned or put away?”
    Lydia twisted the handkerchief. “I suppose it will come to me, sir.”
    Lamb stood. “Constable Harris will look in on you tomorrow morning to see if